风、沙与星辰

by Antoine de St. Exupery

本次小编节选了《风、沙与星辰》中的一段文字与大家分享，文章开头作者得知一位飞行员前辈飞行遇难，在一辆简陋的令人压抑的“老爷车”上，同行的公务员们对那位飞行员的遭遇的反应引发了作者深刻的思考。成为一个在安逸中自甘堕落的小资产者显然不是作者的选择，作者选择在天空翱翔，并通过每一次的不同经历悟出各种关于生命的真理。若你读完此书，你将会永远记得一句话：“在云海上空依靠指南针飞行确实很美好，也很痛快，但是……但你要记住：云海之下……是万劫不复。”不错，在这个价值观迷乱的年代，唯有认清自己的角色，我们才能生得坦然，死得从容，同时赋予生命和死亡以意义。

It was three in the morning when they woke me. I 1）thrust the shutters open with a dry snap， saw that rain was falling on the town， and got 2）soberly into my 3）harness. A half-hour later I was out on the pavement shining with rain， sitting on my little 4）valise and waiting for the bus that was to pick me up. So many other flyers before me， on their day of ordination， had undergone this humble wait with beating heart.

Finally I saw the old-fashioned vehicle come round the corner and heard its tinny 5）rattle. Like those who had gone before me， I 6）squeezed in between a sleepy customs guard and a few 7）glum government clerks. The bus smelled 8）musty， smelled of the dust of government offices into which the life of a man sinks as into a 9）quicksand. It stopped every five hundred yards to take on another 10）scrivener， another guard， another inspector.

Those in the bus who had already gone back to sleep responded with a vague grunt to the greeting of the newcomer， while he crowded in as well as he was able and instantly fell asleep himself. We 11）jolted mournfully over the 12）uneven pavements of 13）Toulouse， one mail pilot or another got into this bus and was for the moment indistinguishable from these bureaucrats. But as the street lamps moved by， as the field drew nearer and nearer， the old omnibus rattling along lost little by little its reality and became a grey 14）chrysalis from which one emerged 15）transfigured.

凌晨三点，我被人叫醒了。我用力推开了百叶窗，发现城里正在下雨，我神情凝重地穿好降落伞背带。半个小时以后，我来到被雨水洗刷一新的人行道，坐在自己的小行李箱上，等待着公司的班车。在我之前，已经有许多伙伴在即将踏上征程的时候，也和我一样，在沉重的等待中备受煎熬。

那辆老式车子终于出现在街角，像破铜烂铁一样叮咣乱响。和其他的伙伴一样，这次轮到我有权与还在犯迷糊的海关职员和几个沉闷的公务员一起挤在长板凳上。车上弥漫着一股霉味，就像是积满尘垢的机关和破旧的办公室。而人一旦陷入这样的办公室里，就再难自拔了。车子每开500码就要停一次，好让秘书、海关职员或督察员之类的人上车。

刚上来的新乘客朝着已经快要睡着的老朋友问好，并在得到了嘟囔着的回答后，找了个位置挤坐下来，然后很快也打起盹来。在图卢兹高低不平的街道上，我们凄凉地颠簸着；飞行员与公务员混坐在一起，一点也不起眼。但是，街灯一盏盏闪过去，机场越来越近。这辆古董箱里的老爷车在咯吱咯吱声中逐渐幻化成一只灰色的蝶蛹，坐在里面的人就像蝴蝶一样，即将破蛹而出。

Morning after morning a flyer sat here and felt of a sudden， somewhere inside the vulnerable man subjected to his neighbors surliness， the stirring of the pilot of the Spanish and African mails， the birth of him who， three hours later， was to confront in the lightnings the dragon of the mountains； and who， four hours afterwards， having vanquished it， would be free to decide between a 16）detour over the sea and a direct assault upon the 17）Alcoy range， would be free to deal with storm， with mountain， with ocean. And thus every morning each pilot before me， in his time， had been lost in the anonymity of daybreak beneath the 18）dismal winter sky of Toulouse， and each one， transfigured by this old omnibus， had felt the birth within him of the 19）sovereign who， five hours later， leaving behind him the rains and snows of the North， had 20）throttled down his motor and begun to drift earthward in the summer air beneath the shining sun of 21）Alicante.

The old omnibus has vanished， but its 22）austerity， its discomfort， still live in my memory. It was a proper symbol of the 23）apprenticeship we had to serve before we might possess the stern joys of our craft. Everything about it was intensely serious.

I remember three years later， though hardly ten words were spoken， learning in that bus of the death of Lécrivain， one of those hundred pilots who on a day or a night of fog have retired for eternity.

It was three in the morning， and the same silence was abroad when we heard the field manager， invisible in the darkness， address the inspector： “Lécrivain didnt land at 24）Casablanca last night.”

“Ah！” said the inspector. “Ah…” Torn from his dream he made an effort to wake up， to display his zeal， and added： “Is that so？ Couldnt he get through…Did he come back？”

And in the dead darkness of the omnibus the answer came： “No.”

We waited to hear the rest， but no word sounded. And as the seconds fell it became more and more evident that that “no” would be followed by no further word， was eternal and without appeal， that Lécrivain not only had not landed at Casablanca but would never again land anywhere.

And so， at daybreak on the morning of my first flight with the mails， I went through the sacred 25）rites of the craft， and I felt the selfconfidence 26）oozing out of me as I stared through the windows at the 27）macadam shining and reflecting back the street lights. Over the pools of water I could see great palms of wind running. And I thought： “My first flight with the mails！ Really， this is not my lucky day.” I raised my eyes and looked at the inspector. “Would you call this bad weather？”I asked. He threw a weary glance out of the window.“Doesnt prove anything，” he 28）growled finally. And I wondered how one could tell bad weather. The night before， with a single smile Guillaumet had wiped out all the evil 29）omens with which the veterans overwhelmed us， but they came back into my memory. “I feel sorry for the man who doesnt know the whole line 30）pebble by pebble， if he runs into a snow-storm. Oh， yes， I pity the fellow.” Our elders， who had their prestige to think of， had all bobbed their heads solemnly and looked at us with embarrassing sympathy， as if they were pitying a flock of condemned sheep.

For how many of us had this old omnibus served as refuge in its day？ Sixty？ Eighty？ I looked around me. Luminous points glowed in the darkness. Cigarettes punctuated the humble meditations of worn old clerks. How many of us had they 31）escorted through the rain on a journey from which there was no coming back？ I heard them talking to one another in murmurs and whispers. They talked about illness， money， shabby domestic cares. Their talk painted the walls of the dismal prison in which these men had locked themselves up. And suddenly I had a vision of the face of destiny.

Old bureaucrat， my comrade， it is not you who are to blame. No one ever helped you to escape. You， like a 32）termite， built your peace by blocking up with cement every 33）chink and cranny through which the light might pierce. You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security， in routine， in the stifling conventions of provincial life， raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars. You have chosen not to be 34）perturbed by great problems， having trouble enough to forget your own fate as man. You are not the dweller upon an 35）errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers. You are a petty bourgeois of Toulouse. Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time. Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened， and naught in you will ever awaken the sleeping musician， the poet， the astronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning.

The 36）squall has ceased to be a cause of my complaint. The magic of the craft has opened for me a world in which I shall confront， within two hours， the black dragons and the crowned crests of a coma of blue lightnings， and when night has fallen. I， delivered， shall read my course in the stars.

每位伙伴都曾经历过这一幕，在一个和此刻相似的清晨，从一个地位低下、仍然要遭到督察员训斥的低级职员，瞬间变成了一名飞西班牙和非洲邮航班机的飞行员；三个小时之后，他就要在闪光电球中迎战巨龙般的群山；再过个四小时，他将降伏巨龙，终于拥有了至高的权力，来决定是绕航海路还是直接飞越阿尔科伊的层峦叠嶂。他将向狂风暴雨、崇山峻岭和惊涛骇浪发起挑战。在图卢兹冬季阴霾的天空下，每天清晨在我之前的每一位飞行员，都曾混杂在默默无闻的人群里，且在这老爷车中破茧成蝶，感到自己将成为最高主宰。五个小时后，他将把北方的雨雪甩在自己身后，减慢马达的转速，在阿利坎特盛夏的灿烂阳光中缓缓降落。

这辆老爷车早已消失了，但它的简陋与不舒适却给我留下了深刻的印象。它象征着从事我们这个既艰苦又快乐的职业所必需的准备工作。在这里，一切都显得那么质朴。

我还记得，三年后的一天，就是在这种车上，在不到十句话的聊天中，我便得知了飞行员勒克里万的死讯。他是我们几百名伙伴中的一员，在一个大雾迷茫的白天或夜晚，永远地离开了我们。

那次也是在凌晨三点，四周同样一片死寂。突然间，我们在伸手不见五指的黑暗中听到现场经理朝着督察员说道：“勒克里万昨夜没有在卡萨布兰卡着陆。”

“啊！”督察员回答，“是吗！” 他从梦中惊起，努力让自己清醒过来，关切地问道：“是吗！他没能飞过去？他半道返航了吗？”

从这老式车的漆黑深处只传来一句回答：“没有。”

我们还在等着听下文，可却什么话也没等到。时间一秒一秒地流逝着，显然，这个“没有”后面已经没有下文了。这个“没有”是终审判决，勒克里万不只是没有在卡萨布兰卡着陆，他再也不会在任何地方着陆了。

因此，在我第一次执行邮航任务的清晨，轮到我来参加这个神圣的就职仪式了。透过车窗，望着被街灯照得明晃晃的碎石路，我心里十分不踏实。一阵阵狂风掠过地上的水洼，我不禁想到：“我的第一次邮航……真是太倒霉了。” 我抬起头，望了一眼督察员，说道：“天气不怎么样吧？”督察员疲惫地瞧了一眼车窗外，嘟囔着：“这可说不好。”我思考着坏天气会有什么样的预兆。就在出发前夕，吉奥梅特的一个微笑驱散了老飞行员压在我们心上的所有不祥之兆；可是，此时此刻，这些兆头又重新浮现在我的脑海中：“谁要是不了解航线上的每座山石，而且又碰上暴风雪，那可够倒霉的……哦，是啊，够倒霉的……”我们的前辈，他们要维护自己的威信，带着让人难堪的怜悯，看着我们，摇摇头，仿佛在为我们的天真与无知而惋惜。

这辆老爷车曾经成为我们之中多少人的归宿？六十人还是八十人？我环顾身旁，发现在黑暗中有几点香烟点明的闪烁。那些陷入沉思的烟客都是上了年纪的老公务员，他们给我们之中的多少人当过送殡客？我在无意中也听到一些他们低声交谈的秘闻轶事。他们谈着生老病死，谈着金银玉帛，谈着烦人的家长里短。这些事情就像是一堵堵死气沉沉的围墙，将他们囚禁在黯淡的监牢之中。突然之间，命运的真面目出现在我的眼前。

我跟前的这位同事是个老公务员，我不是要指责他，但他从来都无法从这座监狱中逃出来。你就像白蚁一样，用水泥封死了所有透光的缝隙，满足于“小资”的安稳生活，墨守着外省人的那些繁文缛节。你筑起这座谦卑的堡垒，挡住了风沙雨雪，也遮住了日月星辰。你根本不把心思放在那些所谓的重大事情上。你想尽一切办法，要把人类的状况忘得一干二净。你根本就不是这颗不安行星上的居民，你从不问自己那种没有答案的问题。你只不过是图卢兹的一个小资产者。即使还来得及，也没有人会把手搭在你的肩膀上。现在，作为你身体的黏土已经干枯而坚硬，再也没有谁能够唤醒沉睡在你身上的音乐家、或是很早以前隐居在你身上的诗人或天文学家了。

我不再抱怨狂风暴雨了。飞行员这个职业的魅力为我开创了另一个新世界，两个小时之内，我就要到那里与众黑龙搏斗，与电闪雷鸣的险峰周旋；在那个新世界里，我突出重围，在夜幕下的星辰中自由翱翔，寻找着属于自己的航道。